A Doubter's Almanac (56 page)

When I finally walked up the ramp at the Lakeland Suites, I heard banging from inside the room. The curtains were drawn. I stamped my feet a couple of times, then knocked. The banging stopped. Then it came again—one, two, three times, shaking the floor. When the door opened, Earl was standing in front of me.

“Oh—”

“What?” he said. “Where’s my wife?”

The wheelchair was pushed against the bed.

“I’m sorry. I thought—”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” He screwed up his face, threw one arm out against the doorframe, and made a stiff-legged lunge, pushing off the wall with his fist so that he landed on the mattress. He pulled the wheelchair close and lifted himself into it.

On the drive to the cabin he told me the story: rainy night, fancy motorcycle—a handmade Ecosse racer that he’d been trying out for a friend. Full-face helmet and Kevlar suit. And just a couple of blocks from home. A teenager running a light.

“Are you ever going to be able to walk again?” I said.

“Not many have.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“That you could stand up like that.”

“And what? Lurch?”

“Walk.”

“I can’t walk.”

“All right.” By now, I was guiding the car over the ruts at the dark end of the cove. Night had fallen and the rain still hadn’t hit, but across the lake, lightning was flaring the horizon. At the mailbox, I tapped the horn a couple of times before I turned in to the drive. I was distracted, and maybe for that reason, I said, “Well, it could have been worse.”

He spared me by not answering. We pulled up to the cabin, and I’d already shut off the engine by the time I noticed what the headlights were shining on: Dad and Cle, still sitting together down by the dock. They hadn’t even come up yet to start dinner. I couldn’t find the light switch, so I tried opening the door. But the lights stayed on. Next to me I could hear Earl’s steady breathing. He just sat there, looking implacably down at the two of them, until finally, with a click, they disappeared back into the night.

—

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
when we sat down to breakfast, I looked out the window and saw that the ramp had been removed. “Where’s Earl?”

“Back in New York,” answered Cle. “He has a busy week.”

Dad looked up from his plate and smiled.

The Sum of Infinitesimals

S
O THAT WAS
how we lived, at the beginning of that summer. Just Cle and Dad and I, out in the woods in that tumbledown cabin, now nicely furnished. I called New York and extended my leave. What could Physico say? They’d have a pretty hard time replacing me.

The cherry orchards across the lake turned from white to green. In the mornings and evenings, I built a fire in the small hearth whose walls were black with soot; then soon, I was building one only in the mornings. Puffs of warm air arrived from the south like trumpet blasts ahead of an army. Geese crossed overhead. At the bench along the dock, Dad and Cle sat watching them.

Right before lunch each day, Dad and I would go down to the water together. Cle would use the time to drive into town for groceries. This was my hour with him. We’d sit on the dock or walk on the paths. I have to say, the days took on a malleability that I’d almost forgotten. The geese. The mergansers. The minks, scrabbling in the crags on sunny mornings. For a time, I called the office every day; but after a while, I just stopped.

Our dinners were quiet—the two of them sitting beside each other the way they did on the dock, but with me at the head of the table now, passing the food. Dad was eating, which pleased Dr. Gandapur. He could finish a whole steak. And though in the afternoons he still grew tired, his nap always seemed to revive him, and in the evenings he grew alert. There was the long, ruddy light. The sharpness of the cedars against the water. He would rise on the new sofa and look from Cle’s face to mine.

—

O
NE MORNING,
I
watched Dad dress himself. I could see that he was feeling good. Pressed slacks from the closet. A sweater from the drawer. The polished wing tips. Standing at the mirror, he combed his hair carefully and splashed cologne onto his collar.

When he noticed me watching he said, “Will you smell this?” He stepped forward. “What’s happened to it?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“I’m only asking you what the cologne smells like.” He pulled the collar toward me.

“It smells like lime, Dad. Same as it always has.”

“What?” He sniffed the cloth. “It stinks. Don’t you smell that? It’s gone putrid.”

“What? No, I don’t. It smells the same.”

He stepped away. In front of the mirror he busied himself with his cuffs, then leaned forward to examine the stubble on his neck. I could see that he was actually trying to smell his collar again. After a time, he said, “Isn’t it amazing?”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know what’s happening to me.”

—

H
E BEGAN GROOMING
himself like that every day now—like a dandy. The shined shoes. The combed hair. Sometimes he’d put on his old black Princeton jacket with its oiled leather sleeves. It had always been small for him, but now it fit. Cle pinned the cuffs so that they wouldn’t hang over his hands. He wore it during the string of cool mornings that arrived midway through the month. The zipper halfway closed, the collar turned up against his neck. She would take his arm: together they would make their way down to the water.

He seemed to be entering the first turns of a maze.

It was hard to know why some days were better than others. In the mornings, he’d walk with her, his step a pace or two ahead. A glance over his shoulder, as though if she stumbled on the path he might still help her. Their spot was the bench at the tip of the dock. A couple of the boards halfway out had cracked, and he’d step past them, then reach back for her hand. His daily gentility. She would take his thin arm and step over. Then they would continue out to the end.

There’s a moment I remember so clearly from that time. One of my father’s spells of energy. A clear morning. A coat of dew. He and Cle making their way along the dampened boards. At the gap, she takes his elbow. Then the rest of the way out to the spalted bench, arm in arm. His bony fingers. Her pale knees. Her face turned to his.

I was washing the breakfast dishes. My mother’s old chore.

Then: a small movement. A quick, upward tilt of her chin.

And suddenly they’re kissing. Her hand comes up and touches his neck.

—

E
MMY PICKED UP
the phone saying, “Daddy!” She was packing her own lunch for school. She told me about a pyramid she’d built the night before from matchboxes. The number of boxes on each level was determined by a Lucas sequence. Did I know what a Lucas sequence was? I did. She recited the function anyway. She informed me that the Lucas numbers were only one example of a Lucas sequence. I told her I was proud of her. Of course, I was also touched with dread.

I asked her how everybody was getting along. She said, “I don’t know, just a minute.” She got off the line. Now Niels came on. He asked me how I was doing. He asked about his grandfather. He asked about the lady who was with us. He told me that Emmy was misbehaving a little bit, but only at bedtime, and that he missed me, although not so badly that he wanted me to come home. If I needed to stay with Grandpa, that was fine. He said he would understand. He would
understand.
He said he imagined I loved my own father the way he and Emmy loved me. I told him that this was really kind of him to consider. I told him that I loved him very much, too. He said that Mom was good and New York was fine. He’d already made himself a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich for school. If Mom asked him to, he would make one for Emmy. She had a book report due that day. “Social studies,” he said, lowering his voice. “Not a good subject for her.” I told him she’d already made her own lunch. Then he said goodbye and went downstairs to load his backpack.

Audra came on. She asked me how I was. I told her. I asked her how she was. She told me about a fundraiser at the kids’ school and about a contractor down the block who’d been sandblasting a brownstone that belonged to a sheikh. She told me about a weekend playdate she’d arranged for Emmy with a new girl from the neighborhood.

When she finished, I said, “So, how’s Mom doing?”

“Oh, she’s good. She’s really good. She seems to have a lot of energy. She’s gone out to visit Paulie.”

“Oh, I didn’t know they were doing that.”

“It was your sister’s idea. I guess she figured she’d get to spend some time with her while you weren’t here.” Then she added, “Actually, I think it’s good for both of them.”

As she talked, Dad appeared through the window and turned down the path toward the lake. A moment later, Cle came down behind him. When she arrived at the turn in the path, he reached back for her arm.

“So, how’s Mom doing?” I asked.

There was a pause.

“Are you all right?” asked Audra.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“Because you just asked me that,” she said.

The Witch of Agnesi

D
AD’S HAND SHOOK,
but he pulled the knife along the grain, canting his wrist so that the shaving curled away into his palm. I sat down beside him. “What are you making?”

“A whistle,” he said. He held it out. “It’s for your son. Here, blow.”

It made two tones, one high and one low.

“Two frequencies,” he said. “I learned that when I was Niels’s age. I used to whittle things like this in the woods. Spent all my days out there by myself. Does he like that kind of thing?”

“Niels loves the woods.”

Dad didn’t look up. From his pocket he pulled a narrower blade and began slotting the end. He wedged out a chip and squared the opening. “I meant being alone,” he said.

“No. Not really. He’s the social one.”

“Does he know where he is?”

I looked out at the water. “He can’t do any of that, Dad. But Emmy can. I’m afraid she has all of it.”

“You’re right to be afraid, then.” With the flat of the knife, he smoothed the barrel, keeping the blade parallel to the wood. “Well, he should enjoy this anyway,” he said and blew another note.

A wind came up suddenly, bending the trees. Then, just as quickly, it calmed.

“What about Emmy, Dad?”

“What about her?”

“Do you think you could make a whistle for
her, too
?”

—

“P
ART OF IT,”
he said, “is a revelation. Look at the color of this.” He pulled up the bottom of his shirt, where the skin was bronze, like tanning cream. “My liver’s off. The proteins are gone. That’s what Gandhi tells me.” He tapped the lip of swelling that had appeared again. “Osmotic pressure. Simple mathematics, coming back around to take a swing at me.”

“Well, it’s better than it was.”

“The things you take for granted. One part goes and everything else follows. You cross the line, you don’t get another chance. When I shave, it bleeds for an hour. And look at my hands.” He held one up. “It’s all a perfect strangeness.”

“Does that hurt?”

“No. But they’re red as beets, aren’t they? It’s my joints that hurt. And sometimes I itch in places you wouldn’t want to know. The itching’s the worst. Most of the other stuff wouldn’t really even bother me. Not that much, anyway.” He looked at me sourly. “It’s like watching a zombie movie, but you’re starring in it.”

When he scratched his shoulder, I saw the nail marks under his collar. He rose and undid the rest of his shirt buttons. “Did I ever show you these?”

“What am I looking at?”

“I’m turning into the thing I loved,” he said. He parted the fabric of his shirt then, and two rubbery breasts swung out. When he dipped his shoulders, they bounced. “Not bad, am I?”

“I’ve seen better.”

That made him laugh. When he caught his breath, he leaned against the chair and undid his belt, then let his pants slide down. From his shorts he lifted out one of his testicles. It was hairless and small. “And feel
this
.”

“I think I’ll pass, Dad.”

He pulled out the other one. “They’re just about gone, Hans.”

He shuddered, letting himself down into the chair again. “Even my old friends have run for the hills.”

—

T
HE PAIN IN
his joints had begun to wake him from sleep, and one evening, Dr. Gandapur stopped by and tried him on a little morphine. Dad swallowed the pill and lay down on the couch. A few minutes later, he sat up and vomited.

Cle heated a cup of soup, and they tried again. This time Dad kept it down; but after Dr. Gandapur left, he stayed on the couch for the rest of the night, half sitting and half lying against the leather, licking his lips and staring wide eyed at whoever was checking on him, as though trying to figure out whether it was Cle or I who was plotting the attack.

The next morning, when the doctor drove back out to see him, Dad said, “Don’t ever ask me to do that again.”

“I understand,” said Dr. Gandapur.

“No,” said Dad, blinking across at him. “You
don’t
understand. I need to be able to
think
.”

“Even at night?”

“Yes, even at night.”

Later, at the door of the Mercedes, I said to the doctor, “I’m sorry about that.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to apologize for. It was I who overstepped. He’ll do fine on what he’s on, perhaps with a little more at bedtime. A mind like his—the drug must perturb it.”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t think he’d give a damn about perturbing
anything
these days.”

He laughed. “But you see, he still
does
.” He settled himself in the seat. “We never rightly understand the existence of another, do we? Of course, he prefers the medicine that he already knows.” He bowed his head, and his pale fingers came to rest on the mirror. “And that is what we will keep him on, for as long as it is possible.”